Lost Children of the Piazza

Piazza della Santissima Annunziata, Florence,. Ospedale degli Innocenti viewed from the Loggia dei Serviti

For a while in the early ‘70s I worked on the reception desk of a small family-run pensione in Florence, Italy. It was located in the Piazza della Santissima Annunziata, a glorious Renaissance square hidden behind the fevered tourist bustle of Piazza del Duomo. The modest pensione announced itself with nothing more than a discreet brass plate outside the door, so that our guests often had trouble finding us. Then again, once they stepped into the piazza they were usually so overawed by its unexpected harmony and beauty that it didn’t seem to matter if it took a while for them to get their bearings. Like so many tourists stumbling out of the narrow streets leading into the piazza, they stand gaping and lost for words. There’s a lot to take in. The two magnificent colonnades running the length of both sides of the piazza are beautiful in the soft repetitive curve of their arches and in the measured elegance of their proportions. As if completing the symphonic flow of space, the same style is repeated in the porticos of the church of the Santissima Annunziata at the far end of the piazza. Then they notice the two fountains where fantastic sea monsters support gargoyles that beggar description; part monkey, part fish and part winged demon, the grotesque figures appear to be bent double spewing into the fountain. Freakishly fascinating, the fountains seem to jar with the overall serenity and sanctity of the piazza and they almost upstage the huge equestrian statue of Ferdinand I, Grand Duke of Tuscany and scion of the Medici.  High on his plinth, as if overseeing the whole visual feast, the Duke looks toward the great red cupola of the Duomo, clearly visible at the end of Via dei Servi which runs like a plumb line between the two piazzas.  You can’t blame the tourists for needing to take a minute. It’s as if, like Alice, they’ve tumbled down a rabbit hole and landed in a medieval wonderland. But eventually they recover enough to notice the unassuming brass plate almost hidden in a corner under the colonnade’s walkway, and they come scrambling up the steps to investigate. Is it possible that those budget rooms they booked are right in the heart of this medieval fantasy? But yes, like the final clue of a treasure hunt, they’ve found it. This is their pensione. Bring in the bags.

The pensione is located under the Loggia dei Serviti built in the 16th century for the religious order, I Servi di Maria, who were closely connected with the neighbouring church. Its soft undulating arches reflect those of the earlier stunning nine-bay loggia of the Ospedale degli Innocenti opposite, which is the real showpiece of the whole piazza. Originally built as an orphanage in the early 15th century, today the Ospedale is a museum-gallery housing works by Renaissance giants including Botticelli and Ghirlandaio as well as a research centre for UNICEF. The building was commissioned by the city’s wealthy Silk Guild and began operation as an orphanage in 1445. Designed by Filippo Brunelleschi, who at time was also master-minding the engineering behind the Duomo, the Ospedale is considered by many to be the last word in early Renaissance architecture.  Above each graceful portico of its colonnade is a series of circular glazed ceramic reliefs (tondi) depicting swaddled babies by the renowned sculptor and ceramicist, Andrea della Robbia. These charming roundels featuring the white infants on a pale blue ground could easily have been an inspiration for Josiah Wedgewood’s blue and white jasperware that became so fashionable in 18th century England.  When first built the orphanage was a tribute to the medieval city’s wealth and its philanthropic commitment at the time when Florence was the engine room of the Renaissance under Lorenzo de Medici. 

In the six months that I lived and worked in the piazza I was never tempted to visit the intriguing building opposite us, although the small window in the little garret room I occupied in the pensione looked directly across the piazza to the Ospedale.  But one day I was curious enough to cross the square to investigate the little area that had been railed off at the far left hand corner under the entrance of the loggia. I’d been told by my boss at the pensione that this was where the old Foundlings Wheel had once been located and I was fascinated by this idea of rotating babies. The wheel was a kind of dumb waiter that had once operated like a revolving cradle into which unwanted babies could be deposited anonymously. Once the child had been placed in the cradle, the wheel would be turned, its motion alerting a new arrival, and the parent could slip away unknown and unseen. The wheel is long gone but an inscription remains under an ornate fresco of two babes floating on air like celestial cherubs. Loosely translated the inscription reads:

For four centuries until 1875, the Foundlings Wheel was the secret refuge of misfortune and guilt, assisted by the perpetual charity that does not close its doors.

It’s not hard to imagine some cloaked and hooded figure cradling a guilty bundle flitting along the passageways and stinking alleys of Florence in the dead of night; starting at every noise and shrinking against the walls of buildings for cover. On reaching the piazza, she (for it would almost certainly be the mother) would hurry up the steps to the orphanage, deposit the child in the revolving crib, and with one last, sorrowful look and a prayer to the Madonna, turn the wheel, before melting  back into the pitch dark of the perilous streets. The clandestine nature of the scenario seems entirely in keeping with the spirit of treachery and intrigue in the city under the grip of the Medici clan. These were dangerous times to be abroad at night. Under cover of darkness thieves and cut-throats lurked with daggers drawn while rival political gangs roamed the streets itching to cross swords in a brawl.  A woman had to be desperate to risk leaving the safety of her home alone at night when she could lose more than her reputation.

Perhaps in the following days, the anonymous ‘donor’ would find a moment to slip into the church of the Santissima Annunziata, just yards from the orphanage in the piazza.  There they could seek solace in confession and praying for the abandoned child’s safekeeping. At any rate it was a blameless abandonment. No questions asked. No fingers pointed and no judgement, except perhaps that of The Almighty.  A child you couldn’t afford either economically or socially (certainly there will have been ‘mishaps’ among some of the better families that had to be covered up too), that child was now in the care of charitable strangers and you could move on with your life.

Interestingly a modern version of the Foundlings Wheel now exists in a number of states across America where Safe Haven Baby Box Drop Offs are now installed on the outside walls of fire stations and hospitals. These boxes are fitted with temperature regulators and sensors and a silent alarm goes off within minutes of the baby being placed there anonymously so that first responders can get the immediate help the baby requires. The baby which must be no older than thirty days, can be dropped off without fear of prosecution and the parent has thirty days to change their mind, after which the child is put up for adoption. ‘It’s not ideal but it’s reality’ says one of the founders of the scheme ‘It’s a loving, legal and safe choice for mothers in crisis’. 

The pensione is still there in that enchanting piazza but it’s gone upmarket since my

days of checking in the Americans clutching their copies of Europe on $5 A Day. Now instead of catering to the thrifty travellers it’s become a sophisticated boutique-style hotel befitting its fabulous location and it now commands boutique-style prices from a very different clientele to the guests that I remember. Today the hotel has been sympathetically and stylishly renovated while maintaining the integrity of its historic charm and each luxurious en-suite room has its own individual character.

In those early days in Florence I wasn’t much interested in appreciating art or architecture; a shocking admission given that I was sitting in the middle of one of the world’s most renowned cultural heritage sites.  But maybe that was the trouble. There was too much of it in Florence. Style, beauty and art were commonplace; they were simply part of the city landscape I moved in every day.  The great piazzas and palaces, the churches, museums and the galleries were like a magnificent painted backdrop that rarely troubled my sense of curiosity. Besides I was too young and too foolish and too self-involved to worry about broadening my cultural knowledge base.  I was out to have fun wherever I could find it.  I wanted to be in the buzz of life in the popular bars and eateries or thrashing about on the dancefloor in my favourite club. And on top of this, I had a following to cope with now. I was still getting used to being attractively exotic to the Italians. As a lone black girl in Italy, I found that I possessed a powerful sexual allure, yet I had no idea what to do with it. From what I could tell there were no advantages to my new status as a sex symbol; all it did was interfere with my mobility, my privacy and my sense of personal security. Men were a constant headache except for the few who weren’t. So who had time to hang about in the galleries with the droves of tourists musing over old paintings? And why on earth would I want to join that ridiculous queue I saw every day outside the Accademia only to be sharp-elbowed in front of the David statue? Meanwhile I could walk by the replica of David in Piazza della Signoria any time of day and that was good enough for me. That’s right.  I don’t mind admitting it now, but back then I was a cultural philistine of the first order. Finding myself living in the cradle of Renaissance, I felt no urge to dig deeper and explore my environment.  I left that to the tourists.